Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (10 page)

It was Siobhan.

“Anything earth-shattering to report?” she asked into her phone. She was sitting in some sort of waiting room. She hadn’t expected to be able to see the doctors right away but had anticipated an office or anteroom. Here, she was in with outpatients and visitors, noisy toddlers and staff who ignored all outsiders as they purchased snacks from the two vending machines. Siobhan had spent a lot of time examining the contents of those machines. One boasted a limited range of sandwiches—triangles of thin white bread with mixtures of lettuce, tomato, tuna, ham, and cheese. The other was more popular: crisps and chocolate. There was a drinks machine, too, but it bore the legend “Out of Order.”

Once the lure of the machines had worn off, she’d perused the reading material on the coffee table—out-of-date women’s mags with the pages just about hanging together, except where photos and offers had been torn out. There were a couple of kids’ comics, too, but she was saving those for later. Instead, she’d started tidying up her phone, deleting unwanted text messages and call records. Then she’d texted a couple of friends. And finally she’d crumbled altogether and called Rebus.

“Mustn’t grumble,” was all he said. “What are you up to?”

“Hanging around the Infirmary. You?”

“Hanging about in Leith.”

“Anyone would think we didn’t like Gayfield.”

“But we know they’re wrong, don’t we?”

She smiled at this. Another kid had come in, barely old enough to push open the door. He stood on tiptoe to feed coins into the chocolate machine but then couldn’t decide. He pressed nose and hands to the glass display, mesmerized.

“We still meeting up later on?” Siobhan asked.

“If not, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting a better offer.”

“You never can tell. Did you see Steve Holly’s rag this morning?”

“I only read grown-up newspapers. Did he print the photograph?”

“He did . . . and then he went to town on asylum seekers.”

“Oh, hell.”

“So if any other poor sod ends up in the deep freeze, we’ll know who to blame.”

The waiting-room door was opening again. Siobhan thought it might be the child’s mum, but instead it was the woman from the reception desk. She motioned for Siobhan to follow her.

“John, we’re going to have to talk later.”

“You were the one who phoned me, remember?”

“Sorry, but it looks like I’m wanted.”

“And suddenly I’m not? Cheers, Siobhan.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon . . .”

But Rebus had already hung up. Siobhan followed the receptionist down first one corridor and then another, the woman walking briskly, so that there was no possibility of conversation between them. Finally she pointed to a door. Siobhan nodded her thanks, knocked, and entered.

It was some sort of office: rows of shelves, a desk, and computer. One white-coated doctor sat swiveling on the only chair. The other rested against the desk, arms stretched above his head. Both were good-looking and knew it.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke,” Siobhan said, shaking the first one’s hand.

“Alf McAteer,” he told her, his fingers brushing over hers. He turned to his colleague, who was rising from the chair. “Isn’t it a sign that you’re getting old?” he asked.

“What?”

“When the police officers start getting more ravishing.”

The other one was grinning. He squeezed Siobhan’s hand. “I’m Alexis Cater. Don’t worry about him, the Viagra’s almost run its course.”

“Has it?” McAteer sounded horrified. “Time for another prescription, then.”

“Look,” Cater was telling Siobhan, “if its about that child porn on Alf’s computer . . .”

Siobhan looked stern-faced. He angled his face into hers.

“Joking,” he said.

“Well,” she replied, “we could take the pair of you down to the station . . . impound all your computers and software . . . might take a few days, of course.” She paused. “And by the way, the police may be getting better-looking, but we’re also given a sense-of-humor bypass on the first day at work . . .”

They stared at her, standing shoulder to shoulder, both leaning back against the edge of the desk.

“That’s us told,” Cater told his friend.

“Well and truly,” McAteer agreed.

They were tall and slim, widening at the shoulders. Private schools and rugby, Siobhan guessed. Winter sports, too, judging by their tans. McAteer was the swarthier of the two: thick eyebrows, almost meeting in the middle, unruly black hair, face needing a shave. Cater was fair-haired like his father, though it looked to her as if he maybe dyed it. Already a touch of male-pattern baldness was showing. Same green eyes as his father, too, but otherwise there was little resemblance. Gordon Cater’s easy charm had been replaced by something much less winning: an absolute confidence that Alexis was always going to be one of life’s winners, not because of what he was, any qualities he might possess, but due to that lineage.

McAteer had turned to his friend. “Must be those tapes of our Filipino maids . . .”

Cater slapped McAteer’s shoulder, kept his eyes on Siobhan.

“We
are
curious,” he told her.

“Speak for yourself, sweetie,” McAteer said, affecting campness. In that instant, Siobhan saw the way their relationship worked: McAteer working constantly at it, almost like a king’s fool of old, needy for Cater’s patronage. Because Cater had the power: everyone would want to be
his
friend. He was a magnet for all the things McAteer craved, the invites and the girls. As if to reinforce this, Cater gave his friend a look, and McAteer made a show of zipping his mouth shut.

“What is it we can do for you?” Cater asked with almost exaggerated politeness. “We’ve really only got a few minutes between patients . . .”

It was another shrewd move: reinforcing his credentials—I’m the son of a star, but in here, my job is helping people, saving lives. I am a necessity, and there’s nothing you can do to change that . . .

“Mag Lennox,” Siobhan said.

“We’re in the dark,” Cater said. He broke eye contact to cross one foot over the other.

“No, you’re not,” Siobhan told him. “You stole her skeleton from the medical school.”

“Did we?”

“And now she’s turned up again . . . buried in Fleshmarket Alley.”

“I saw that story,” Cater said with the slightest of nods. “Grisly sort of find, isn’t it? I thought the article said it had something to do with raising the devil?”

Siobhan shook her head.

“Plenty of devils in this town, eh, Lex?” McAteer said.

Cater ignored him. “So you think we took a skeleton from the medical school and buried it in a cellar?” He paused. “Was it reported to police at the time . . . ? Only, I don’t recall seeing
that
particular story. Surely the university would have alerted the proper authorities.” McAteer was nodding his assent.

“You know that didn’t happen,” Siobhan said quietly. “They were still in the mire for letting you walk out of the pathology lab with a selection of body parts.”

“These are serious allegations.” Cater offered a smile. “Should my solicitor be present?”

“All I need to know is what you did with the skeletons.”

He stared at her, probably the same look which had discomfited many a young woman. Siobhan didn’t even blink. He sniffed and took a deep breath.

“Just how major a crime is it to bury a museum piece beneath a pub?” He tried her with another smile, head sliding over to one side. “Aren’t there any drug pushers or rapists you should be pursuing instead?”

The memory of Donny Cruikshank came to her, his scarred face no kind of recompense for his crime . . .

“You’re not in trouble,” she said at last. “Anything you tell me will be kept between us.”

“Like pillow talk?” McAteer couldn’t help saying. His chuckle died at another look from Cater.

“That means we’d be doing you a favor, Detective Clarke. A favor that might need repaying.”

McAteer grinned at his friend’s comment, but kept quiet.

“That would depend,” Siobhan said.

Cater leaned towards her a little. “Come out for a drink with me tonight, I’ll tell you then.”

“Tell me now.”

He shook his head, not taking his eyes off her. “Tonight.”

McAteer looked disappointed: presumably some prior arrangement was about to be ditched.

“I don’t think so,” Siobhan said.

Cater glanced at his wristwatch. “We need to get back to the ward . . .” He held out his hand again. “It was interesting meeting you. I bet we’d have had a lot to talk about . . .” When she stood her ground, refusing to take his hand, he raised an eyebrow. It was a favorite move of his father’s, she’d seen it in half a dozen films. Slightly puzzled and let down . . .

“Just one drink,” she said.

“And two straws,” Cater added. His sense of his own powers was returning: she hadn’t managed to turn him down. Another victory to chalk up.

“Opal Lounge at eight?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “Oxford Bar at seven-thirty.”

“I don’t . . . is it new?”

“Quite the opposite. Look it up in the phone book.” She opened the door to leave, but paused as if she’d just thought of something. “And leave your jester in his box.” Nodding towards Alf McAteer.

Alexis Cater was laughing as she made her exit.

7

T
he man called Gareth was laughing into his mobile phone as the door opened. There were gold rings on each of his fingers, chains dangling from his neck and wrists. He wasn’t tall but he was wide. Rebus got the impression much of it was fat. A gut hung over his waistband. He was balding badly, and had allowed what hair he had to grow uncut, so that it hung down to the back of his collar and beyond. He wore a black leather trenchcoat and black T-shirt, with baggy denims and scuffed sneakers. He already had his free hand out for the cash, wasn’t expecting another hand to grab it and haul him inside the flat. He dropped the phone, swearing and finally taking note of Rebus.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Afternoon, Gareth. Sorry if I was a bit brusque there . . . three cups of coffee gets me that way sometimes.”

Gareth was composing himself, deciding that he wasn’t about to be done over. He bent down for his phone, but Rebus stepped on it, shaking his head.

“Later,” he said, kicking the phone out of the door and slamming it shut behind them.

“Fuck’s going on here?”

“We’re having a chat, that’s what.”

“You look like the filth to me.”

“You’re a good judge of character.” Rebus gestured down the hall and encouraged Gareth into the living room with his hand pressed to the young man’s back. Passing father and son in the kitchen doorway, Rebus looked towards the son and got a nod, meaning he had the right man. “Sit down,” Rebus ordered. Gareth lowered himself on to the arm of the sofa. Rebus stood in front of him. “This your flat?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Only it’s not your name on the tenancy.”

“Isn’t it?” Gareth played with the chains around his left wrist. Rebus leaned over him, got right into his face.

“Is Baird your real surname?”

“Yeah.” His tone challenged Rebus to call him a liar. Then: “What’s so funny?”

“Just a wee trick, Gareth. See, I didn’t actually know your surname.” Rebus paused and straightened up again. “But I do now. Robert’s what—your brother? Dad?”

“Who are we talking about?”

Rebus smiled again. “Bit late for all that, Gareth.”

Gareth seemed to agree. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the kitchen. “Did they grass us up? Did they?”

Rebus shook his head, waited till he had Gareth’s full attention. “No, Gareth,” he said. “A dead man did that . . .”

After which he let the young man simmer gently for five minutes, like so much reheated cock-a-leekie soup. Rebus made a show of checking text messages on his mobile. Opened a new pack of cigarettes and slid one unlit between his lips.

“Can I have one of those?” Gareth asked.

“Absolutely . . . just as soon as you tell me: is Robert your brother or your dad? I’m guessing dad but I could be wrong. By the way, I can’t begin to count how many criminal charges are hanging over you right now. Subletting’s just the start of it. Does Robert declare all this illegal income? See, once the taxman gets his claws into your baws, he’s worse than a Bengal tiger. Trust me on that—I’ve seen the results.” He paused. “Then there’s demanding money with menaces . . . that’s where you come in specifically.”

“I’ve never done nothing!”

“No?”

“Nothing like that . . . I just collect, that’s all.” A pleading tone entering his voice. Rebus guessed Gareth had been the slow, lumbering kid at school—no real friends, just people who tolerated him because of his bulk, using that bulk when occasion demanded.

“It’s not you I’m interested in,” Rebus reassured him. “Not once I’ve got an address for your dad—an address I’m going to get anyway. I’m just trying to save the pair of us all that hassle . . .”

Gareth looked up, wondering about that “pair of us.” Rebus shrugged an apology.

“See, you’ll be coming with me back to the station. Hold you in custody till I get the address . . . then we pay a visit . . .”

“He lives in Porty,” Gareth blurted out. Meaning Portobello: on the seafront to the southeast of the city.

“And he’s your dad?”

Gareth nodded.

“There,” said Rebus, “that wasn’t so bad. Now up you get . . .”

“What for?”

“Because you and me are going to pay him a visit.”

Gareth didn’t like the sound of this, Rebus could tell, but he didn’t offer any resistance either, not once Rebus had cajoled him to his feet. Rebus shook hands with his hosts, thanked them for the coffee. The father started offering banknotes to Gareth, but Rebus shook his head.

“No more rent to pay,” he told the son. “Isn’t that right, Gareth?”

Gareth gave a flick of his head, said nothing. Outside, his mobile phone had already been taken. Rebus was reminded of the flashlight . . .

“Somebody’s pocketed it,” Gareth complained.

“You’ll have to report that,” Rebus advised. “Make sure the insurance takes care of it.” He saw the look on Gareth’s face. “Always supposing it wasn’t nicked in the first place.”

At ground level, Gareth’s Japanese sports car was ringed by half a dozen kids whose parents had given up on sending them to school.

“How much did he give you?” Rebus asked them.

“Two bar.” Meaning two quid.

“And how long does that get him?”

They just stared at Rebus. “It’s not a parking meter,” one of them said. “We don’t give tickets.” His pals joined in the laughter.

Rebus nodded and turned to Gareth. “We’re taking my car,” he told him. “Just have to hope yours is still here when you get back . . .”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Back to the cop shop for a reference to help with the insurance claim . . . Always supposing you’re insured.”

“Always supposing,” Gareth said resignedly.

It wasn’t a long drive to Portobello. They headed out Seafield Road, no sign of a prostitutes’ day shift. Gareth directed Rebus to a side road near the promenade. “We need to park here and walk,” he explained. So that was what they did. The sea was the color of slate. Dogs chased sticks across the beach. Rebus felt like he’d stepped back in time: chip shops and amusement arcades. For years when he was a kid, his parents had taken him and his brother to a caravan in St. Andrews for the summer, or to a cheap bed-and-breakfast in Blackpool. Ever since, any seaside town could pull him back to those days.

“Did you grow up here?” he asked Gareth.

“Tenement in Gorgie, that’s where I grew up.”

“You’ve gone up in the world,” Rebus told him.

Gareth just shrugged, pushed open a gate. “This is it.”

A garden path led to the front door of a four-story double-fronted terraced house. Rebus stared for a moment. Every window had uninterrupted views across the beach.

“Moved on a bit from Gorgie,” he muttered, following Gareth up the path. The young man unlocked the door and yelled that he was home. The entrance hallway was short and narrow, with doors and a staircase off. Gareth didn’t bother looking in any of the rooms. He headed for the first floor instead, Rebus still close behind.

They entered the drawing room. Twenty-six feet long, with a floor-to-ceiling bay window. The place had been tastefully decorated and furnished, but too modernly: chrome and leather and abstract art. The room’s shape and dimensions didn’t suit any of it. The original chandelier and cornices remained, offering glimpses of what might have been. A brass telescope sat by the window, supported by a wooden tripod.

“What the hell’s this you’ve dragged in?”

A man was sitting at the table by the telescope. He wore a pair of glasses on a string around his neck. His hair was silvery gray, neatly barbered, the face lined by weathering rather than age.

“Mr. Baird, I’m Detective Inspector Rebus . . .”

“What’s he done this time?” Baird closed the newspaper he’d been reading and glared at his son. There was resignation rather than anger in his voice. Rebus guessed things weren’t working out as hoped for Gareth in the family’s little enterprise.

“It’s not Gareth, Mr. Baird . . . it’s you.”

“Me?”

Rebus did a circuit of the room. “Council’s certainly doing a better class of let these days.”

“What are you on about?” The question was for Rebus, but Baird’s eyes were asking his son for an explanation, too.

“He was waiting for me, Dad,” Gareth burst out. “Made me leave my car there and everything.”

“Fraud’s a serious business, Mr. Baird,” Rebus was saying. “Always mystifies me, but the courts seem to hate it more than housebreaking or mugging. I mean, who are you cheating, after all? Not a person, not exactly . . . just this big anonymous blob called ‘the council.’” Rebus shook his head. “But they’ll still come down on you like shit from the sky.”

Baird had leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“Mind you,” Rebus added, “you weren’t content with the small stuff . . . how many flats are you subletting—ten? Twenty? Got the whole family roped in, I’d say . . . maybe a few dead aunties and uncles on the paperwork, too.”

“You here to arrest me?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m ready to tiptoe out of your life the minute I get what I’ve come for.”

Baird suddenly looked interested, seeing a man he could do business with. But he wasn’t altogether convinced.

“Gareth, he have anybody else with him?”

Gareth shook his head. “Waiting for me in the flat . . .”

“Nobody outside? No driver or anything?”

Still shaking his head. “We came here in his car . . . just me and him.”

Baird considered this. “So, how much is this going to cost me?”

“The answers to a few questions. One of your tenants got himself killed the other day.”

“I tell them to keep themselves to themselves,” Baird started to argue, ready to defend himself against any implication that he was an uncaring landlord. Rebus was standing by the window, staring down at the beach and promenade. An old couple walked past, hand in hand. It annoyed him that they might be subsidizing the schemes of a shark like Baird. Or maybe their grandkids were languishing on a waiting list for a council flat.

“Very public-spirited of you, I’m sure,” Rebus said. What I need to know is his name and where he came from.”

Baird snorted. “I don’t ask where they come from—made that mistake once and got my ear bent for my sins. Thing that concerns me is, they all need roofs over their heads. And if the council won’t or can’t help . . . well, I will.”

“For a price.”

“A
fair
price.”

“Yes, you’re all heart. So you never knew his name?”

“Used the first name Jim.”

“Jim? Was that his idea or yours.”

“Mine.”

“How did you find him?”

“Customers have a way of finding
me.
Word of mouth, you could call it. Wouldn’t happen if they didn’t like what they were getting.”

“They’re getting council flats . . . and paying
you
over the odds for the privilege.” Rebus waited in vain for Baird to say something; knew what the man’s eyes were telling him—
Got that off your chest?
“And you’ve no idea of his nationality? Where he was from? How he got here . . . ?” Baird was shaking his head.

“Gareth, go fetch us a beer out the fridge.” Gareth was quick to comply. Rebus wasn’t fooled by the plural “us”—he knew there’d be no drink forthcoming for him.

“So how can you communicate with all these people if you don’t know their language?”

“There are ways. A few signs and bits of miming . . .” Gareth came back with a single can, which he handed to his father. “Gareth did French at school, I reckoned that might be useful to us.” His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, and Rebus assumed that once again Gareth had fallen short of expectations.

“Jim didn’t need to mime, though,” the boy added, keen to contribute something to the conversation. “He spoke a bit of English. Not as good as his pal, mind . . .” His father glared at him, but Rebus stepped between them.

“What pal?” he asked Gareth.

“Just some woman . . . about my age.”

“They were living together?”

“Jim lived on his own. I got the feeling she was just someone he knew.”

“From the estate?”

“I suppose . . .”

But now Baird was on his feet. “Look, you’ve got what you came for.”

“Have I?”

“Okay, I’ll put it another way—you’ve got all you’re getting.”

“That’s for me to decide, Mr. Baird.” Then to the son: “What did she look like, Gareth?”

But Gareth had taken the hint. “Can’t remember.”

“What? Not even her skin color? You seemed to remember how old she was.”

“Lot darker-skinned than Jim . . . that’s all I know.”

“She spoke English, though?”

Gareth tried looking to his father for guidance, but Rebus was doing his best to block his sight line.

“She spoke English and she was a friend of Jim’s,” Rebus persisted. “And she lived on the estate . . . Just give me a bit more.”

“That’s everything.”

Baird stepped past Rebus and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You’ve got the boy all confused,” he complained. “If he remembers anything else, he’ll let you know.”

“I’m sure he will,” Rebus said.

“And you meant what you said about leaving us be?”

“Every word of it, Mr. Baird . . . Of course, the Housing Department may have their own feelings on the matter.”

Baird’s face twisted into a sneer.

“I’ll let myself out,” Rebus said.

On the promenade, there was a stiff breeze blowing. It took him four attempts to get his cigarette lit. He stood there for a while, staring up at the drawing-room window, then remembered that he’d missed lunch. There were plenty of pubs on the High Street, so he left his car where it was and took a short stroll to the nearest one. Called Mrs. Mackenzie and told her about Baird, ending the call as he pushed open the pub door. Ordered a half of IPA to wash down the chicken-salad roll. Earlier, they’d been serving soup and stovies, and the aroma lingered. One of the regulars asked the barman to find the horse-racing channel. Flipping the TV remote through a dozen stations, he passed one that made Rebus stop chewing.

“Go back,” he ordered, debris flying from his mouth.